Rip Your Heart Out
by Lady Aura
Summary: As if the case wasn't bad enough, now she's gotta deal with vigilantes. Witchblade Supernatural crossover.


The case was a nasty one.

The victim, a woman in her late 20's, was found by her roommate dead on the floor of her own kitchen. Her heart had been cut out of her chest; it was found lying in a bloody mess next to the body.

Pez couldn't make heads or tails of it.

Sara Pezzini, New York City homicide detective, sat brooding at her desk, staring at the wall of photos and notes in front of her. Across the table, her rookie partner Jake McCarty frowned his way through witness reports and scene details. Not that there was much to go on – there had been no prints at the scene but the girl's and her roommate's. No murder weapon found. No signs of forced entry. And everyone who knew the girl had a verifiable alibi.

"I don't get it," Jake muttered, paging through the documents for the twelfth time. "When someone performs corpse mutilation like this, don't they usually have a reason? Don't they usually take whatever they...took?" He blew out a frustrated breath, running a hand through messy, spiky bleach-blonde hair. "I mean, why cut out the heart if you're not gonna _do_ anything with it?"

Pez grunted, glaring at the photos of the crime scene and the late girl.

Sometimes, if she just thought hard enough about a case, an answer came to her.

Literally. She still wasn't really sure why she got these random visions – flashes of the past – but they were sure helpful sometimes. And this case was just the kind of thing the Witchblade liked.

She rubbed her hand over the silver and red bracelet on her wrist. The Witchblade. The source of most of her headaches and heartaches for the past six months.

She'd taken on a lot of bizarre cases in those six months. It was like she gravitated towards them – or was pulled. The weirdest so far had to have been Isaac Sullivan and his creepy band of creepy clones. That case, too, had involved brutal, almost ritualistic murder.

Was this something like that? Something...strange? Unexplainable by normal detective work?

Sara focused on the picture of the heart. Jake was right. Why take the heart out? Why not just stab or shoot the person and be done?

Hearts had all sorts of poetic connotations. And this girl had literally had her heart cut out.

_A man. Angry, crying, shaking with emotion._

"_Well, that's great. That's just fucking swell. You know what? Fuck you, Heather. I hope you learn what it feels like to have _your_ heart ripped out some day."_

There. That was it. That was the nudge she'd been looking for.

"Jake. Did this Heather girl have a boyfriend?"

Jake gave her a look, but he didn't question it. He was used to Pez's leaps of logic by now.

"Um...her roommate said she was single. Father dead, mother living in Jersey with her little brother, no significant other, hardly any friends besides her roommate. She was pretty much a loner, I guess."

Pez nodded. "Do me a favor? Go call that roommate. Find out if the victim broke up with anyone recently. Or hell, at all."

"You think maybe...?"

"Her heart was cut out, Jake. That sounds like a psychopath's poetic justice to me."

* * *

"Her heart wasn't cut out." 

Pez blinked at long-time friend and sometimes drinking buddy Vicki Po, the precinct's chop doctor.

"Come again?"

Vic smiled in that half-amused, half-disgusted way she always seemed to when confronted with Pez's cases.

"It wasn't _cut_ out. It was _ripped_ out."

Pez frowned, shifting her weight uncomfortably.

"How so?"

"Look." Vic pulled the cloth off of the body, revealing the gaping chest wound. "The edges are torn and irregular. The skin looks like it stretched and broke, or rather, was _pushed_ and broke. The ribs are splintered into hundreds of little pieces. And there's no sign of what happened to her left breast. It's just _gone_, like it liquefied."

"Which," Pez muttered, "while _insane_, would explain the amount of gore around the body."

"Oh, it gets better." The dark-haired doctor popped the lid off of a nearby Rubbermaid container, revealing the battered heart.

"The heart is bruised. In the shape of – get this – _fingers_." She pointed out the defined handprint, large and dark, on the heart's withered surface. "In order to bruise like that, so distinctly, it would had to have been still beating when it was grabbed."

Pez straightened up, looking her friend in the eye.

"So what you're saying is, someone literally punched _through_ the girl's skin, breast, and ribs, grabbed the heart, and _yanked_ _it out_?"

Vic gave her that same twisted, sickened grin.

"That is _exactly_ what I'm saying."

* * *

"I don't know why I'm so surprised." Jake said later, when they reconvened at a nearby hotdog stand for lunch. "You'd think I'd know to trust your hunches by now." 

Pez cocked her head, willing herself not to look smug. "I was right?"

"You were right. Michael Baker, 23, was dating Heather until last week. She'd decided he wasn't right for her, and broke it off one night without warning. No fight, or no blows or yelling exchanged anyway." Jake bit into his hot dog, chewed, and swallowed. "Roommate Karen seemed to think Mike was something of a wuss. Apparently he cried like a girl and begged for her to take him back. She refused, and he left sobbing."

Jake's contempt for the girly-man was so obvious Pez couldn't help but grin.

"Classic. Doesn't sound like a murderer, though."

"Yeah. I got his address. Wanna check it out?"

"Mmm. Let me finish my frank."

* * *

It was the guy from the vision, all right. Medium height, skinny, dark hair worn long and drab, ratty clothes. 

"I don't understand. The cops already came by and questioned me."

His voice sounded thick, choked, like he'd been crying for days. He certainly didn't _seem_ like a psychotic killer, but who knew?

"They did?" Jake asked, brow furrowed, and Pez pursed her lips. This was _their_ case – no one else should be poking around in it. "Who?"

"Uh, two younger guys, late twenties maybe? Tall and built. I don't remember their names." He sighed, obviously distraught. "Look, I'll tell you what I told them. Heather broke my heart. I didn't want to go near her after that night. I haven't seen her since. I'm sorry she's dead – " and there his voice cracked – "but I didn't do it, and I don't know anyone who would. She was...special. She meant more to me than anything."

Jake nodded, still frowning. Pez had to lock her hands behind her back, because the Witchblade was shifting and slithering on her wrist, telling her what she already knew. Something was off here.

"Michael. Did anyone tell you how Heather died?"

He looked up at her, eyes bright with unshed tears.

"No?" he whispered, unsure. Pez steeled herself.

"Her heart was ripped out." She hated telling him this, it was like kicking a puppy a thousand times over. But she had to know. "It looked like someone had reached into her chest and just..." She made a pulling motion, adding a little squelching sound for effect.

Michael's eyes grew wide, his face draining of color.

"Oh, God," he whimpered, and then he fled the doorway, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Retching sounds floated in from what had to be the bathroom.

Jake and Pez exchanged glances.

"Well, either he's the world's greatest actor, or he's not the killer," Jake muttered. "And also? Ew. God, Pez, you made _me_ wanna hurl."

She shrugged, apologetic. "I wanted to see his reaction."

Jake gave her a look, which she ignored.

"You know, it bugs me that someone else has been working our case."

"Yeah, no kidding," Jake said. "Let's find out who."

She followed his gaze to the security camera installed in the hallway just outside the door to Michael's apartment.

* * *

"Pez, we've got a problem." 

Sara looked up from her computer to find Jake leaning against the doorframe, a thick manila file folder in hand.

She chuckled derisively. "When do we not?"

Jake's mouth twitched, and he closed and locked the door behind him, drawing down the shades. One hand reached out to roll his desk chair over to her side of the table, the other tossed the folder in front of her.

She opened it. The very first thing in the folder was a grainy security camera still, depicting two tall, broad young men at Michael's door.

"Our mystery cops?"

"Yep," Jake said, turning the chair backwards and straddling it. "Not cops." He rifled through the stack, coming up with another still – this one showing their faces as they walked away – and a pair of mug shots.

Sara compared. Yeah, those were the same two guys.

"Dean Winchester?" she asked, reading the text at the bottom of the first shot.

"And his brother Sam. Wanted by the FBI for two strings of killings and a hostage situation in which four died. Along with a crapload of smaller infractions."

"Really?" She was surprised. Dean's mug shot showed him with a smartass smirk, like he was amused the cops had caught him. Sam looked like a lost puppy dog. Neither seemed like hardened criminals, and Pez had seen a lot of mug shots to compare with. What's more, they didn't look like they were in the least bit worried about what was going to happen to them, even though the text stated they were in the Baltimore precinct on suspicion of murder and accessory to.

That usually meant that either they were innocent, and knew it, or that they were both completely insane. Or possibly both.

"So why were they talking to our lead about our case?"

Jake grinned.

"This is where things get weird. Apparently that's their usual modus operendi."

"They impersonate cops?" Pez asked, leaving the obvious _why_ unspoken.

"And feds, and doctors, and lawyers, and reporters, and even Homeland Security agents once. Anyone they think the witnesses will talk to."

"Ok." She let that sink in. Nope, still didn't make sense. "Why, exactly?"

"There are several theories floating around, but _I_ think they're vigilantes."

Pez frowned. "Huh."

"Yeah. They tend to show up around brutal, unexplained or serial killings. Soon after they're spotted, the killings stop, and they leave. I think they've taken it upon themselves to lay down their own law."

Sara paged through the rest of the documents, frowning as lines jumped out at her.

"Breaking and entering, ok, that fits the pattern. But car thievery? _Graverobbing_?"

"Uh, or they're just nuts." Jake shrugged. "But look at this one."

He held out a case file.

"Saginaw, Michigan. This guy Miller kills himself via car exhaust. The Winchesters show up and start asking around, posing as, get this, _priests_. Roman collars and everything." He shook his head, apparently amazed at the audacity. "While they're there, Miller's brother kills himself by dropping a window on his neck."

Sara made a face. What a way to die.

"The next day the first guy's son Max shoots himself in front of both Winchesters and his stepmother."

"Yeah, and?" She didn't really see what Jake was getting at.

"And once the police started asking around, they realized what the brothers probably already figured out – Max's father and uncle were violently abusive, and his stepmother never lifted a finger to help him."

Realization dawned, and Pez turned back to Jake.

"You think the kid killed his dad and uncle?"

Jake nodded. "And he was gonna kill the stepmom, but these two stopped him. Classic vigilante." He pulled out a coroner's report. "Max was shot in the forehead, right between the eyes. His stepmom said he came into the room and threatened her, and then turned the gun on himself."

"He shot _himself_ between the eyes?" 90 percent of suicide shootings were at the temple or in the mouth. Few ever thought to do it any other way.

Jake let out a bark of laughter. "And what's more, the path of the bullet showed that the gun was tilted down when it fired. He could have just been holding the gun at an angle, _or_ someone taller than him might have shot him. Max was only 5'6"."

"And our Winchesters are..." Sara shuffled papers until she found the mug shots. "6'1" and 6'5"." She glanced at the coroner's report and the pictures of the body. "And look, no burns on his forehead. The gun probably wasn't held against his head, then." She held her hand up at a distance, making a gun shape with her fingers and bending her wrist towards her. It felt really awkward, and she shared a look with Jake. "Rookie, you may be on to something here."

He saluted her with his Styrofoam coffee cup.

"So now what? We can't just let these boys dig around in our case."

"No, and we can't just call the FBI on them either. They've evaded a full SWAT team in a blocked-off bank. In a city this big? They'll be gone before the feds can even _begin_ to search. And, well...all the evidence against them is circumstantial, at least when it comes to the murders. One or both of them were implicated in nine killings total – but no one's ever been able to come close to proving it. There's even talk about a look-alike, some guy who looks enough like Dean to be confused as him."

"Hmm." Sara stared at the mug shots, thinking. Jake sounded like maybe he thought these guys were doing a good thing – a dangerous attitude for any cop to have. Still, she couldn't really blame him. She had been known to take the occasional vigilante-esque action in her time.

She met Sam's eyes in the picture. Earnest. Young. Likable. Attractive, in a long-haired college-boy kind of way.

Her bracelet shifted on her wrist. Warning.

He was not what he seemed. Question was, what _was_ he? Accomplice to a crazed murderer? A killer himself, even? He didn't really look the type, but again, you never knew. Some people were just...well. Evil.

"Our first priority is our case. If they show up again..." She trailed off.

Jake nodded. "Yeah."

* * *

Like always, when a case was getting to Sara, at the end of the day she could be found in the precinct's gym, pushing her body while she worked through whatever was bothering her. 

Today she was beating the crap out of the punching bag, going over the details of both the case and the file on the Winchesters. She knew she should be thinking about the murder alone, but...something was telling her the two young men were key to the case.

"You should learn to trust your instincts."

Sara caught the bag and looked up at the painfully familiar voice. Standing in front of her was Daniel Woo, her old partner.

Her _dead_ partner.

She sighed.

"Hi, Danny."

He gave her a soft smile, long black hair falling into his face as he dipped his head in amusement.

"This case, it's important. Part of something else." He took a couple steps to the side, circling her. Not touching, no, never touching. He was dead, after all.

"I gathered that, actually." She held up her wrist, displaying the bracelet. The red stone was shifting, glowing, like it always did when he was around. "This thing won't leave me alone. Especially when I'm thinking about those two kids."

"Everything is connected," he told her. As if that helped. "Trust yourself. Trust the Blade."

"I do," she replied, quietly. "I just wish I could trust Jake."

Danny cocked his head. "Don't you?"

Sara shrugged, running a hand through long, sweaty chocolate-colored hair.

"I don't know. He keeps surprising me. I like him, I respect him. But the more I respect him, the less I trust him. He's hiding something, Danny."

"Ah." Danny's thin mouth quirked into the ghost of a smile. "You're not wrong. Neither is Jake, though he may have gotten some wires crossed."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Time and patience turn the mulberry leaf to silk." Danny smiled wryly. "Ancient Chinese proverb."

A footstep behind her and a warning from her bracelet caused Sara to whip around.

Standing in the corner of the room was a second man, dressed in black and shrouded in shadow.

Sara rolled her eyes. Nottingham.

"Don't you ever knock?" she asked the shadowy figure.

He stepped out into the dirty light of the single overhead fixture, prowling around the edges of the room. As usual.

Ian Nottingham, Sara's very own personal stalker, was tall, dark and handsome at its most eerie. Six-foot-two and built like the killing machine he was, with eyes so dark they were almost black and long, messy brown hair, worn in loose waves around his face today.

"I didn't want to interrupt," he said, gaze fixed on the floor.

She risked a glance back to where Danny had been standing. Sure enough, her ghostly friend was gone. He never stuck around when someone else was nearby.

She sighed. There was not a single man in her life who didn't have his own unique way of getting on her nerves.

"You couldn't have just called?" Sara almost enjoyed his cryptic phone calls. Over the phone, he was less frightening and more mysterious. And he had an awfully nice voice, deep and smooth.

"I wanted to see you," he replied, his circling prowl tightening until he was at her shoulder, still looking at a point on the floor. He was so close she could smell him, leather and gunpowder and masculinity.

The Witchblade shifted in warning against her wrist. He was dangerous – she couldn't forget that.

"Well, here I am," she said, holding out her arms wide to indicate that fact. The action inadvertently put her wrist right into Ian's vision.

He brought his hand up, tracing a single, black-gloved finger around the edge of her bracelet. She covered a shudder and pulled her hand away.

Brown eyes flicked to hers, dark beneath heavy brows and tangled curls.

"You're being watched," he murmured. His eyes purposefully went to a spot behind her.

She turned instinctively, looking over her shoulder. Following his gaze landed her own on the security camera in the corner.

When she looked back, he was gone.

* * *

By the time Sara got to the camera station, the place was deserted. The chairs were pushed to the side, as if someone had gotten out of the room in a hurry. An empty bag of Peanut M&Ms sat on the desk. 

On the floor was a single, faintly muddy bootprint, easily large enough to belong to a six foot five inch man.

Sara sat back on her heels, running her hand around the print. She'd lay even money that the Winchesters had been here.

She flicked through the last hour's tapes, and sure enough, there they were, entering the security guard station in coveralls. They'd been watching long enough to have witnessed her conversations with Danny and with Ian, which was probably why they knew to leave.

She fast forwarded the tapes to show her talking to Danny. He didn't show up on tape. That was good, in that a dead guy wasn't disappearing and appearing in front of them. It was bad because these cameras had sound, and she looked pretty crazy, talking to someone who wasn't there.

The most worrisome thing was not what they may have seen or heard, but that they were there at all. Two known felons were stalking her. As if she didn't have enough stalkers.

Crap. She had been planning on visiting Gabriel tomorrow, seeing if he had any ideas about their mysterious heart-ripper. Now she couldn't – not in person, anyway. She wasn't going to put him in danger like that.

She'd email him. The precinct had a pretty secure system, and Gabe had his own encryption codes, the little technophile.

Sighing, she put the tapes back in order and left the precinct.

They were probably still watching her, but she could live with that. Someone was always watching her.

* * *

Pez sent the email as soon as she got into the precinct in the morning. She and Jake worked through the case verbally for a few hours, tossing around ideas and coming up blank yet again. 

Around 1 Pez went into Dante's office to get her weekly verbal reaming. When she got back, Gabriel's email was waiting for her.

_Pez,_

_This morning a couple guys came in asking about that exact same situation. One of them was one of my long-time contacts, a guy named Sam. He's bought from me before, physical things and information. He's really deep into mythology and religion. Sorta intense sometimes, but a pretty cool guy._

_Anyway, like I said, he and his brother swung by this morning. They wanted to know if someone could just say "I hope you learn what it's like to have your heart ripped out" and somehow cause it to happen._

_I'll tell you what I told them. Besides the mundane reasons, there's this psychic thing that could cause it. It's sorta like multiple personality or schizophrenia, I guess, except more so. The afflicted's subconscious manifests itself somehow, acting out the person's base desires and momentary whims. Kinda like the Hulk, or Jekyll and Hyde, only in extreme cases the second personality can physically split from the body and become its own entity._

_This could be just straight-up schizophrenia too – have you found out if the guy was on medication or seeing a shrink? Some times people with MPD don't remember what their other self did._

_Anyway. The other thing was, they were asking about you. Both you personally, and your bracelet. I don't know if they realized I'd make the connection._

_I told them that yeah, I knew you, I sold you that drum set a couple months back and you've stopped by to talk a couple times since. I may have made it seem like you were interested in me romantically – sorry – but it was the only way I could think of to justify you coming back so many times._

_When they asked about the bracelet, I told them there were dozens of references to bracelets with apparently magical or supernatural properties. I mentioned a couple examples that weren't the obvious. They didn't push it much farther._

_Look, Sara, these guys mean business. They're really sharp, both of them. I don't know who they are or what they want with you, but be careful, ok?_

_-Gabe_

"Jake," Pez said, deleting the email and erasing any trace of it she could find. "Did Michael have mental issues?"

"Uh..." Jake clicked away at his computer, bringing up the information he needed. "Yeah, actually. He was seeing a psychiatrist." He gave her a look over his computer screen. "Want me to get the file?"

"ASAP," Pez replied, not sure whether to be satisfied or uncomfortable that he was acting so much like her partner. On one hand, it was nice to have backup. On the other...well, it felt like an insult to Danny's memory.

She stubbornly ignored the voice in her head that said Danny would laugh at her for even thinking that.

* * *

Getting the file off of the psychiatrist's clerk had required every bit of charm and influence he had, but ten minutes later Jake walked out of Franck Memorial Mental Hospital with the thick folder in hand. 

He was halfway down the alley where he'd parked his car when a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out from behind the Dumpster at the end.

"Detective McCarty."

Jake stopped, watching warily as the figure stepped into a beam of late-afternoon sunlight. Clean-shaven, feline eyes, wild mop of brown hair, layers of nondescript clothing in nondescript colors.

Sam Winchester.

Jake automatically reached for his gun, only to be stopped by the unmistakable feeling of cold metal pressed to the back of his neck. Of course. Wherever Sam went, Dean would be there. Really, as predictable as these two were, it was a wonder no one had caught them yet.

Keeping his voice even, Jake asked the obvious question.

"What do you want?"

Dean chuckled, low and throaty and surprisingly close to his ear.

"That folder, Jakey boy. Hand it over." Dean stepped around into Jake's line of sight, keeping the gun pressed into the base of his skull, shorter, broader and more masculine than his brother. At the same time, Sam approached, holding out a hand expectantly.

It was one thing to look at the stats on the paper, and yet another to be completely surrounded by scary-ass psycho-killer Winchester. Jake, at 5'11" and nearly a hundred-eighty pounds of solid muscle, was not a small man, but next to these two younger guys, he felt frikkin tiny. He barely came up to Sam's nose, for chrissakes.

He thought about being a smartass but decided to just hand the folder over. It wasn't worth getting himself beat up or shot.

Sam gave him a genuine smile, thankfully backing out of his personal space. Jake couldn't help but think _with a smile like that, it's no wonder no one will testify against them_. The FBI agent who was in charge of the investigation warned that both could project very sincere and likeable images, but Sam was the one who could get anyone to do anything with just the right look.

He'd thought they'd just let him go then, or maybe shoot him and have done with it, but Sam flipped the folder open right there.

Dean, visible in the corner of his eye, shot his younger brother a curious look.

"Dude, what's it say?"

Sam hmm'ed, holding a finger up. Dean actually rolled his eyes in exasperation, giving Jake a look that said 'can you believe him?'

If it wasn't for the gun still pressed into his hairline, Jake might have doubted these two has a criminal bone in their bodies. They seemed almost normal, two brothers who had spent far too much time together recently. As it was, he had to commend them for characters well played.

"Hah." Sam broke the silence first.

"Hah what?" Dean asked.

"Hah, you owe me twenty bucks."

"Really?" Dean looked far more upset by this than he should have. "Aw, shit."

"Yep. 'Patient exhibits signs of stress, fatigue, bipolar disorder, and occasional schizophrenic episodes with delusions of grandeur." Sam read directly off of the report's coversheet. He looked up momentarily, meeting Dean's eyes.

Dean studied him for a moment, and Sam looked back down.

"It gets better." He flipped to a point somewhere near the middle of the file. "Subject described nightmares today. For over a year, he's been dreaming recurrently about a yellow-eyed man who taunts him and urges him to commit horrible crimes." Sam shut the folder with a smack, giving his brother an 'I-told-you-so' look. "A yellow-eyed man, Dean."

"Alright, alright, fine. You were right, I was wrong, you'll get your twenty bucks. Are we done here?"

"Almost." Sam came over and looked Jake in the eyes. "Who's Danny?"

"What?" The question genuinely threw Jake off. Sam only gave him a furrowed, exasperatingly patient look.

"Your partner, Sara Pezzini. Did she ever know someone named Danny? A lover, maybe, or a family member?"

Jake blinked, trying to find a reason not to tell them and failing.

"Her last partner, before me. Danny Woo. He died about six months ago. Killed on the job."

Sam and Dean exchanged unreadable looks.

"Were they close?"

"Danny was all the family Sara had." He didn't tell them about Joe Siri, their former boss and the closest thing to a father Sara still had. They didn't need to know that.

"Jake," Sam said, his voice gentle and soothing, "would Danny have ever hurt Sara? Did they ever argue, or fight?"

He frowned. "No. God, no. I mean, yes, they argued sometimes, because they were both stubborn bastards, but Danny would have never hurt her, not willingly."

"And she'd never hurt him?"

"Of course not. You didn't see her after he died. Man, I never saw anything so scary, and I'm a cop." Jake stopped as a horrible realization hit him. If these guys really were vigilantes, then...

"Oh, God. Don't tell me you think _Pez_ killed Danny?" The idea that these two might come to the wrong conclusion and hurt his partner scared him far more than he'd ever admit.

"What? Oh, nonono, nothing like that. We were just curious." Sam flashed him another megawatt-smile, and Jake found himself strangely reassured. Dang, this kid was _good._

Sam held out the folder, and after a moment Jake realized he was supposed to take it. He furrowed his brow in confusion. They were giving it back to him?

Sam brushed past him, headed for the main street.

"See ya later, Jake," Dean muttered in his ear, and then the pressure from the gun was gone.

Jake didn't dare move until the footsteps faded from his ears. When he finally turned, he was alone in the alley.

* * *

Pez looked up, annoyed, when Jake finally made it back to the precinct. 

"Kid, you've been gone for an hour. How long does it take to sweet-talk a receptionist?"

"Ten minutes," Jake replied, shutting the door and lowering his voice. "Plus fifteen to drive there, fifteen to drive back, and twenty to stand in an alley with a gun to my head."

His partner dropped her boots off of the desk and sat up, instantly concerned.

"What?"

"Our friendly neighborhood serial killers paid me a visit. They wanted a look at the kid's psychiatric file."

"The Winchesters?" Pez asked, lowering her voice to match his. They were in a supposedly secure office, but both knew that anyone could have found a way to listen.

"Yeah. They let me go without a scratch when they were done, too. Looks like my vigilante theory has some promise, eh?"

Pez only frowned, taking the folder from him and leafing through it.

"Did they say what they were looking for?"

"Yeah. Turns out they made the same guess you did – schizophrenia. The kid had episodes of it, and delusions of grandeur besides." Jake sat on the edge of the desk, pointing out a specific passage in the notes. "Sam was particularly interested in this part right here."

"Nightmares?" Pez read. "Of a man telling him to do things?"

"A yellow-eyed man," Jake corrected. "That was apparently important enough to win Sam twenty bucks out of his brother."

"They were _betting_ on it?"

"Apparently."

"Christ. This case gets weirder and weirder." And for once, the Witchblade wasn't leading her by the nose, something which should have been a relief but was instead a concern. The thing was volatile, and it had only recently reminded her that it could kill her at any time should she make the wrong move. Any change in its behavior was cause for worry.

"Yeah." Jake worried at his lip for a moment, then sighed. "There was something else, too."

Sara studied him intently until he spit it out.

"They were asking about you. And...they asked about Danny."

Her blood ran cold.

"What did they ask?"

Jake sighed.

"That's just it. They wanted to know _if_ you knew someone named Danny. I mean, it's public record that you and he were partners, but...if they didn't know who he was, how did they know to ask about him?"

_Because they heard me talking to his ghost,_ Sara thought, mentally kicking herself. She wasn't quite sure what this meant for her, but she knew it couldn't be anything good.

"What did you tell them?" she asked, trying hard to keep the urgency out of her voice.

"Uh, that you were partners, and Danny had died about six months back. They asked if you and he ever fought, ever hurt each other, I said yeah you fought but you'd never cause damage, not on purpose. It was weird," he continued. "It was like they were expecting me to say that you guys got in a big fight right before you died, or you or he did something awful to the other. They seemed surprised that you two were close."

Sara nodded distractedly, mulling this over. So either they thought she was crazy, talking to her dead partner – much more likely – or they realized she had been talking to a ghost. If she assumed the second, their questions made sense. Weren't ghosts usually supposed to come back for revenge?

Not Danny, though. He came back to be her very own cryptic guide, a la nearly every fantasy or science fiction ever written. A guardian angel, only with less guarding and more useless platitudes and confusing double-talk.

God, she missed him. When alive Danny had been anything but confusing – he'd been straightforward and honest, with a sharp eye, a dry wit and an easy smile. He'd anchored her firmly in reality.

It sorta made sense that her world hadn't spun wildly out of control until he had died.

"Ok," she said. "Alright. You look through this, see if you can find anything we can use to put this guy behind bars. I've got another lead to check up on."

She left immediately, grabbing her jacket and motorcycle helmet from the chair, before Jake could open his mouth to protest.

* * *

Sara pulled up in front of the Vorshlag Industries main office, maneuvering her bike into the conveniently placed motorcycle parking spot directly in front of the door. The one she suspected had been put in specifically for her use. 

Oh, yeah, this place made her feel _welcome_.

She strode in the doorway and past the receptionist, who merely gave her a small smile and inclined her head towards the elevator. She had stopped asking for permission after about the third time she'd come here. There was no point.

Kenneth Irons, CEO of Vorshlag Ind, had taken a special interest in her since before she'd found the Witchblade. He was internationally powerful, unimaginably rich, vaguely handsome, creepy as fuck and absolutely _obsessed_ with the occult, especially the Witchblade.

Nottingham was waiting for her just outside the elevator on the top floor. He fell into step a pace behind her, staring at the floor by her boots and silent as always. She ignored him.

When Nottingham wasn't stalking her – which was not often, granted – his actual purpose was to be Iron's personal bodyguard. And possibly his boytoy, Sara wasn't really sure. Nor did she care to find out. In any case, she had realized long ago that he was the reason Irons always seemed to know when she was coming and what she wanted.

His hair was tied back severely today, revealing strong bone structure and a length of deceptively pale, muscular neck. She wondered absently if he kept it tied back on days he was working for Irons, and let it loose when he was looking for her on his own time. Then she wondered if he even_ had_ any time of his own.

She stopped abruptly in front of a set of steel doors. These were activated by a retinal scan, she remembered. Nottingham could probably get her in, but he only stood patiently behind her at parade rest, legs planted firmly apart, hands clasped tightly behind him.

So Sara held the Witchblade up to the scanner. Sure enough, the door opened.

Once inside Irons' spacious, tactfully decorated monochrome office, Ian moved to the corner and stood like a statue, waiting. Sara continued to ignore him, instead making straight for the painting displayed prominently on an easel in the center of the room.

It was one of those artsy modern things, all swirling colors and vague impressions and slaps of paint reminiscent of both Pollock and Van Gogh, only more, well, amateur. The only thing recognizable as anything were a pair of bright, mottled yellow eyes.

Sara traced her fingers over the signature, flowing and dripping in red near the bottom of the work. M. Baker.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Sara raised her head but didn't turn around, recognizing the cultured tenor. Irons.

"Not really my style." She was getting used to this game, now. She couldn't just come out and ask what she needed to know, because Irons would never tell her; she had to play along, gently steering the conversation towards whatever it was she wanted.

"Flames and shadows, an interesting juxtaposition." He moved into her range of vision, circling, so much like Ian that it was disturbing. But Sara held her ground, studying the painting and not looking at him.

"The eyes bother me," she commented, as offhandedly as she knew how. "Are they human or animal?"

"Neither," Irons replied, stopping just behind her, crowding into her personal space with a twist of his pale, thin lips. "Or possibly both. Does it matter?"

Oooh, he was obnoxious. He knew it mattered, of course. He always knew.

"It might," she said carefully. He chuckled under his breath, apparently amused.

"And the artist?" she asked, thinking maybe he was loose enough to talk.

"A brilliant but unfortunately quite disturbed young man." Irons leaned in conspiratorially, and Sara had to force herself not to pull away. "He says he dreamed this up."

"Did he?" Sara replied, cold. "Interesting. What made you decide to purchase this particular painting?"

Irons cocked his head, bringing his mouth dangerously close to her neck.

"The poor boy needed support," he said. "He'd had a rough week. This piece just...stood out, to me."

Sara couldn't suppress a shudder as his clammy breath ghosted over her neck. That was it – she was out of here.

She forced a polite smile that probably came out quite strained.

"Well, it's been fun," she said, trying to cover the sarcasm and failing. Irons only raised pale brows, pulling away slightly.

"Yes. You know you're welcome any time, Sara."

She nodded and left, stalking out of the room as quickly as possible. Christ, that man grated on every last nerve she had.

Soft footfalls followed her down the hall, and Sara tensed. A quick glance down and to the side, however, revealed scuffed combat boots, not polished Versace loafers. Nottingham, then.

She continued to ignore him, not having anything to say and knowing he probably wouldn't answer her even if she did. Ian had his own rules of society, and somehow they were comforting right now, especially when juxtaposed with his master's slimy good etiquette.

The elevator door opened for her immediately when she pushed the button. Like everything else in the building, it was as if it had been designed for her, was waiting for her. Creepy.

A black-clad arm shot out to stop the elevator door from closing.

"Not human, not animal." Ian said, low but clear. "Demon."

His hand fell behind his back again, and the doors slid shut, leaving Sara with her thoughts.

* * *

Her cell rang just as Sara reached her bike. 

"Pezzini," she answered, throwing her leg over and settling in the seat.

"Pez? It's Jake. I think I found something on that Baker kid. Could you meet me at my place tonight?"

Sara frowned. It was just after six – why was Jake home already, if he was still working on the case?

"At your place?" she asked. Jake chuckled a little, but he sounded strained.

"Yeah. I didn't want to stick around the office anymore today. Dante was riding my ass again."

_That_ sent up warning bells. Captain Dante rode _her_ ass – day in, day out, actually – but never Jake's. He was the baby, the golden boy, and Dante could and did bend over backwards for him. Jake knew it, too.

He was trying to tell her something.

"Yeah," she said, softly. Then, more confidently, "Yeah, Jake, sure. Let me swing by my place and get changed. I'll be there in forty-five. You cookin', California Boy?"

Jake chuckled again, and the sound seemed a little less choked.

"Yeah, sure, Pez. See you soon."

He hung up, and Sara closed her own phone, strapping on her helmet. She could be at Jake's in fifteen – and hopefully get the drop on whoever was trying to lure her into a trap.

Whoever, her _entire_ ass. It had to be the Winchesters. Question was, what did they want?

* * *

Pez made her way down the hall to Jake's apartment silently, sidearm at the ready. She'd take any ribbing she would get if she was wrong and he wasn't being used as bait. There was no way she was going in there unprepared. 

She rapped sharply on the door, calling Jake's name.

"C'mon in," she heard him say. Muffled, as though he were a couple rooms away.

She twisted the doorknob, found it unlocked, opened the door. She'd only been to Jake's apartment a few times, but it never ceased to amaze her how nice it was. Spacious, modern, tastefully decorated.

As the door swung out, she caught a flash of color in the crack between the hinges and the frame.

Gotcha.

She stepped forward slowly, then swung around the door, gun raised.

Sure enough, there was Sam Winchester, all six and a half feet of him, aiming a pistol of his own directly at her head.

He smiled, apparently amused.

"Clever, Detective."

"It's my job." She didn't take her eyes off him for a second, but she knew she had to find Dean fast. "Where's your brother?"

"Right here," said a low, gruff voice, surprisingly close to her ear. She jumped but was immediately stopped by the unmistakable feeling of cold steel at her neck. Suddenly, she realized what Jake must have felt like earlier that day.

Dean moved to her side, bringing pretty-boy features and impossibly clear green eyes into view. One rough, callused hand slid slowly down her arm, prying her fingers away from the gun with surprising delicacy.

She gave the gun up, realizing they had every advantage in this situation and recognizing that she had a much better chance of getting herself and Jake out alive if she cooperated. Especially if they _were_ vigilantes, and not straight-up serial killers. A vigilante always had a code of honor you could appeal to.

Sam pushed the door closed, but Sara noticed he didn't lock it. She doubted he was forgetful or stupid, so either he was really, really cocky, or he was expecting more company tonight.

Huh. That made things a bit more complicated. She was really starting to regret the pride that had kept her from calling in backup.

"Jake?" she called. "You alright?"

"Fine, Pez," came floating from the back room. "Just a little tied up right now."

From next to her ear, Dean snorted.

"I like him. He's a funny guy."

Sam gave his brother a look.

"Focus, Dean."

"Don't get your panties in a wad, _Samantha_."

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Sara cut him off with a mutter.

"Christ, I've been captured by Dumb and Dumber."

"What does that say about you?" Dean quipped without missing a beat, even as his hands found her cuffs and maneuvered her arms down behind her back. Instead of cuffing her, though, he encircled her wrists with one strong, broad hand, the other tucking the cuffs into his back pocket and coming up to guide her with a firm grip on her shoulder.

"That I'm Dumbest, apparently," she grumbled, letting herself be led towards the bedroom. She was surprised and a little impressed by his professionalism; he'd used only as much strength as he needed to get her to cooperate, and not a bit more. He wasn't trying to intimidate her or hurt her, just get her to do what he wanted. She knew several cops who could learn a thing or two from him.

Still, there was power in his movements, and she had no doubt that he could easily force her if she resisted him. At least, he could if the Witchblade decided not to come to her rescue, of which it had shown no sign. Dean's hands had slid over it when he was disarming her, and the damn thing hadn't even twitched.

She wasn't actually sure if that was because the blade itself had felt no threat, or if it was because she had secretly enjoyed the touch. She decided not to think about it.

They entered Jake's bedroom, where, to Pez's intense amusement, her young partner was handcuffed to the headboard. He sat crosslegged against the board, his hands dangling limply from the cuffs, shooting mostly annoyed and somewhat sheepish looks at the three people who entered. He didn't look hurt in any way, further reassuring Pez that the Winchester brothers were vigilantes and not psychos and that they might just let them go unharmed.

"Sorry, Pez," he said quietly.

She shrugged as best she could through Dean's firm grip on her.

"I got the message, Jake. Just didn't do me much good."

He cocked her a crooked smile.

"Hey, at least we tried, right?"

She smiled back, as Dean guided her down to the bed next to her partner. She got as comfortable as she could, knowing it might be a while.

Dean cuffed her left hand to the bedframe, low, so all the blood didn't rush out of her arm. Sam tossed him another set of cuffs and he leaned over her with a slight leer and a waggle of his eyebrows, purposefully brushing against her. Sara only gave him an eyebrow. He really wasn't her type, dashingly handsome though he may be.

The smile was wiped off his face, however, when he turned up her right wrist to cuff it to the headboard.

"Holy...Sam, c'mere and look at this."

Jake, of course, twisted his head to see what they were looking at.

Pez groaned.

If you didn't look very closely, you didn't notice that the Witchblade was actually a part of her, the ends of the bracelet buried in her skin and melding with her bones. Unfortunately, all three were looking pretty closely.

Sam furrowed his brow, sitting on the bed between Jake and Sara's hips and running a long digit over the place where the bracelet broke the skin.

Sara shivered uncontrollably. God, she hadn't realized how _sensitive_ that area was. It'd only been two weeks since the Periculum, and no one had seen the inside of her wrist but Gabriel. Except probably Nottingham and Irons, though she couldn't be sure. And certainly no one had _touched_ it.

She schooled her face to neutrality, covering a frown and feeling very glad her wrist was turned up so the red stone on the top was hidden. Sam's touch had made the blade shift faintly. But it wasn't a warning – not exactly. It almost felt like a greeting.

"That looks like it hurt," Sam said softly. Sara had to let out a chuckle at that.

"You have no idea."

"Sara?" Jake asked, and oh boy she was in trouble now because he _never_ called her by her first name. She looked up, and sure enough, his blue eyes were fixed on her wrist, wide and a little horrified. "How did I miss that?"

She shrugged. "Because it only happened two weeks ago?"

"Bullshit," Jake said, his gaze turning accusing. "You've been hiding something from me all along. I just didn't have a place to start looking."

Sam and Dean exchanged looks, and as one pulled away from the bed. They moved towards the door, apparently giving Sara and her partner some space.

Really, for kidnappers, they were very polite. Still.

"Jake, not now. When we get out of this, I'll tell you everything, all right? Now is not the time."

Jake studied her face, obviously suspicious.

"Dude," Dean broke in from the doorway. "If she doesn't tell you, just go ask that Gabriel guy. He _totally_ knows something."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"He's also _totally_ not telling, Dean. I used every trick in the book to get him to talk, and a couple the book doesn't even know about. Nada." His eyes, as clear and green as his brother's, flicked to Sara. "You have a good friend in him."

She bit her lip, suddenly feeling guilty. Maybe she'd take Gabe to dinner after all this was over.

"I know," she said.

Jake, beside her, was still studying her face.

"Alright," he said. "I'll wait. But when this is over, I want to know _everything_, Pez. I can't back you up if you don't trust me."

She let out a derisive little laugh.

"Trust isn't the issue, Jakey. And you're assuming we're gonna get out of this alive."

"Oh, you will," Dean said confidently. "Contrary to popular belief, my brother and I aren't murderers. You two are bait, but we're gonna be right here to spring the trap before the monster eats you. No worries."

Sara frowned.

"I hope that was metaphorical," she said. Sam gave her a tight smile. It looked out-of-place on his boyishly handsome face.

"Only the eating part, actually."

"Yeah," Dean said with a bright grin. "It probably doesn't want to eat you. Just, you know, kill you gruesomely. Rip out your hearts, maybe."

Jake shifted, obviously disturbed by this.

"And you're leaving us cuffed to the bed?"

"We won't let anything happen to you," Sam reassured him, voice soft and face earnest.

"Oh yeah, _that_ makes me feel better. A pair of serial-killer vigilantes are gonna protect us."

"Vigilantes? That's what you think we are?" Dean cocked his head. "Huh. That's actually...not far off. Hey Sam! We're vigilantes!"

"Great," Sam muttered. "Because his ego _needed_ a boost."

"That's awesome! I'm a vigilante, wanted by the FBI! I'm totally badass."

Sara snuck a glance at Jake. He looked _so_ confused.

She sighed.

"They're not vigilantes, Jake."

All eyes turned to her. She met Dean's.

"They're demon hunters."

Silence. A slow, gut-melting smile spread over Dean's face.

"Well, give the lady a prize."

"How'd you know, Sara?" That was Sam, straddling Jake's desk chair, the position emphasizing his long limbs.

"The strange nature of the cases you take? The questions you asked Jake earlier today. And something someone said to me just before I got Jake's call." She tilted her head. "So I'm right?"

Dean shook his head in amazement. "Got it in one. Should have known you'd guess, being something supernatural yourself."

Sara tensed. Dean grinned.

"What, you didn't think we'd notice? C'mon, Sara. We've read up on you. Weird follows you around, doesn't it?"

Beside her, Jake snorted softly but didn't comment.

"You've had strange events and questions surrounding you for about six months, right? Ever since your partner died, maybe even before."

Sara kept her face neutral, but Sam must have seen something anyway because he added "Before, then. When you were involved in that shooting in the Joan of Arc exhibit at the art museum."

She knew she tensed at that. How could they _possibly_ know that? How had they put the pieces together?

Sam crossed his arms over the back of the chair, letting his huge paws dangle.

"That's the Digitablum Magi, isn't it." It wasn't really a question.

Sara drew in a sharp breath. The Witchblade shifted and rubbed against her skin, reacting to its Latin name. Beside her, Jake jumped, and Sara knew without looking that he had seen it. Wonderful.

"The what?" Dean asked.

"The Witchblade. Her bracelet, it's a supernatural weapon. A gauntlet with a sword, right?"

Sara snorted. She shouldn't even bother to try and hide this stuff any more.

"Among other things."

"You're all nuts," Jake whispered beside her. Sara caught his eyes and held them.

"Jake, what do you think happened to Isaac Sullivan? Or those guys who were in the Rialto when Danny was killed?"

His eyes widened in realization. "Oh. That's how you...Oh."

"Sammy, how'd you know this stuff? I mean, besides just being a ginormous geek."

Sam shot his brother a withering look. "Talismainiac dot com, actually. Gabriel is obsessed with the thing – or at least, he used to be. About six months ago he took down everything on his site that even referenced the Witchblade. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but when we saw the bracelet move on camera..."

"So _that's_ why you insisted on going to see him. And here I thought you had a crush."

Sam flipped his brother the bird, to which Dean only grinned.

"When I asked him about magical bracelets, he mentioned everything that he'd ever heard of – _except_ the Witchblade. It was pretty obvious he was protecting you." That last was directed at Sara. "He just didn't think of the fact that I'd been a regular of his for almost a year."

"Pez?" Jake asked. "Was this what you were gonna tell me later?"

Sara gave him an apologetic look. "Some of it, yeah."

Jake shook his head. "No wonder you didn't want to tell me, man. That shit is crazy."

Sara felt a small smile pull at her mouth. That, right there, was both an apology and forgiveness. He wasn't going to hold her secretiveness against her, then. Good. She'd already lost one partner this year – she didn't think she could stand to lose a second.

"So." Jake said, turning his attention to the Winchester boys. "Let's say I believe you, and you're not completely batshit insane. What are we dealing with here?"

"Honestly?" Dean said. "We think your boy Michael is possessed."

"Possessed by what?" Jake was frowning again. Dean gave him an 'are-you-dumb?' look.

"A demon, dude. What else?"

"Oh, right, of course." The sarcasm in Jake's tone was so thick you would need an axe to cut it.

"Hmm, possession is rough," Sara mused. "Do you think Michael was a willing vessel?"

All three men gave her surprised looks.

"Huh, sounds like you've had some experience," Dean said. Sara shrugged.

"There was this priest, a couple months back. He was a willing vessel. Took a hell of a lot of work to banish him."

"Father Del Toro?" Jake asked. When Sara nodded, he shuddered. "Now I don't feel like such a wuss. He gave me the creeps, man."

"No," Sam said, answering Sara's earlier question. "In fact, I think Michael's been fighting tooth and nail. He's a powerful psychic, an empath."

"Kid's been using his power to try and understand and help people for over a year now," Dean added. "This demon tries to possess him, but it doesn't count on the kid's degree of mental control, and the demon somehow gets shoved deep into his subconscious."

"Michael starts hearing voices and having dreams, and so he goes to a shrink." Sam was out of the chair now, pacing. "He gets more and more scared and more and more moody, and his girl gets sick of it and breaks up with him. In a moment of weakness, he wishes her pain, and the demon latches onto that and feeds it until it can manifest, causing Michael to black out and the demon to take over."

Sam stopped, looking down at the floor. Dean watched him.

"He wakes up with blood on his hands, and finds out the next day that Heather's dead. We show up, and he's confused, frightened, but absolutely convinced he would never have done something like that. Then you two show up, and tell him how she died, and suddenly he remembers exactly what happened."

Sam fixed Sara with a steady gaze. "His control broke, and the demon took over. Which is bad, obviously. But also, it's good, because a demon fully in charge of a body is a lot more predictable than a demon fighting for control."

"The demon will latch onto whatever is the most negative emotion Mike's currently feeling. We figure, he's probably pretty pissed at you two right now." That was Dean, leaning against the doorjamb.

"What if you're wrong?" Jake asked. Sam and Dean shared glances.

"We're not."

"And how are you going to stop him?" Sara added.

With a grin, Dean pointed up. Sara followed the motion to the ceiling, where an intricate, ritual circle was drawn in pale pink chalk.

How had she not noticed that?

"Pink?" she asked, because there really wasn't anything else she could say.

"White wouldn't show up on the ceiling," Sam explained. "Any other color would be too noticeable. If the demon sees it before he steps into it, it's useless."

Jake gave her a look. "That's what Sam was doing while Dean was holding a gun to my head and a phone to my ear."

"Look," Dean said suddenly, cutting Sara off before she could reply. "We're almost out of time. Things might get a little hairy in here, real soon. I'm not going to ask you two not to defend yourselves if things get rough, just... remember. It's Michael's body, not a demon's, and any physical damage you do, you do to him."

"Dean," Sam warned, looking around. The overhead light was flickering, as if the wiring was suddenly faulty.

Dean and Sam were on their feet in an instant, backs to the wall on either side of the door. Instead of grabbing their guns or another weapon, both drew flasks from their pockets and unscrewed them silently.

The unmistakable click-creak of the front door opening floated into the room. Sara suddenly realized that they were horribly obvious, trussed-up little lambs ready for slaughter. No self-respecting demon would fall for this.

So she slumped down against Jake's shoulder, hiding their cuffed hands from sight with her body.

"Pretend you're asleep," she hissed as quietly as she could. Jake looked confused but complied, dropping his head onto Sara's and lowering his lashes.

From between her slit lids Sara could see Dean raise an eyebrow and shoot her a thumbs up. They must look convincing enough, then. It would be better if they didn't still have their boots on, but hopefully the demon wouldn't be able to get close enough to realize there was anything wrong before stepping into the trap.

She saw someone coming and shut her eyes completely, trusting in the Winchesters to do as they said they would and in the Witchblade to protect her if they failed.

Footsteps. Then a splash of liquid, an inhuman scream, and a violent hissing noise. Sara opened her eyes in time to see Dean and Sam hook a wet, steaming, screaming Michael under each arm and haul him into the influence of the circle.

Michael stopped instantly, panting, and slowly looked up.

"Fuck," he said. "This is really getting old."

Sara and Jake sat up, shifting back into comfortable sitting positions, as Sam and Dean circled their prey.

"Ohoho, don't tell me," Dean said, looming over Michael's much smaller frame. "Meg."

Michael smiled, a slow, teasing and decidedly feminine leer that looked very wrong on his face.

"Hi, Dean. I'm back." He cocked his head. "What, no hug?"

"Huh," Sam said, as he and Dean continued to pace around the smaller man. "Bet your daddy's getting pretty sick of bailing you out of Hell every couple of months."

"I'm his favorite," Michael confided. "He doesn't mind."

"You guys know each other?" Jake asked. Sam shot him a look.

"We've met."

Michael turned his attention to the bed for the first time.

"Oooh, handcuffed and everything. Sam, you kinky bastard."

"Hmm, what makes you think it was Sam and not me?" Dean asked conversationally. Michael's smile turned downright evil.

"I've been inside his head, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Sam said. "About that – "

And he pulled back and let loose a punch to the jaw so powerful that Michael was actually knocked to the floor, coughing and spitting blood.

"Sam," Dean said quietly. "What did I just say?"

Sam pulled back, outside the circle. "Yeah. Yeah, I know, Dean." He cracked his knuckles, glaring at the man on the floor with shockingly intense hatred.

"So, Meg. Before we get this show on the road. You locked yourself in this time? Because I'll strip-search you if I have to." Dean stood directly in front of him – her? – arms crossed, legs planted. He looked calm, but Sara could see the muscles of his shoulders and back flexing with nervous energy through his worn t-shirt.

_Thin shoulders flexing, pulling, as a shirt was stripped off._

_Michael, leaning in to examine himself in the bathroom mirror._

_Michael, pressing the tip of a red-hot poker into his own chest._

_Michael, his eyes burning black in his reflection as his skin hissed and seared._

"His chest," Sara called out immediately. "Right over his heart."

Dean shot her a confused look over his shoulder, but Sam reached down and ripped Michael's shirt collar, exposing a burn scar in the shape of a chain link.

"Score," he muttered, and in a flash a knife was transferred from his boot to his hand and he was cutting into the scar.

Michael yelled and struggled, but the ritual circle above him must have drained him of any supernatural powers, because he barely shifted Sam at all.

Sam stood and dropped the bloody knife to the floor, catching the worn leather-bound book that Dean tossed him.

"Well, Meg, it's been fun. Love to stay and chat, but you've got a one-way ticket to Hell, and you don't wanna be late." Dean smirked at the bleeding man.

"What, you're not gonna torture me this time?" Michael/Meg asked, pulling himself up to his knees.

"Nah," Sam said. "This time, we just want you gone." He turned his attention to the book.

"Regna terre, cantate Deo, salute Domino," he read, his voice going low and steady. Something passed through the demon on the floor, because he shuddered, so fast and so violent he seemed to flicker.

Sara felt Jake tense beside her, and risked a glance over. Her young partner was watching closely, eyes wide and brow furrowed, like he couldn't look away if he tried.

As the Latin poured from Sam's mouth, Sara felt the Witchblade squirm. Not shift, not change, but actually _squirm_, wriggling like a cat begging to be pet. Pulses of warmth spread up her arm, and she covered a gasp.

Michael groaned in pain, forcing a twisted grin onto his face with what looked like monumental effort.

"Anything you want me to say to your dad when I see him?" he growled, staring up at Dean.

Dean's full lips became a tight white line.

"Yeah." He braced his hands on his knees and leaned down, getting right in Michael's face. "Tell him I sent you, you demonic bitch."

"Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis." Sam continued reading, his voice rising, gaining in power. "Humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine, quem inferi tremunt. Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, domine."

With each syllable, Sara felt the Blade pulse with power, warming her, filling her. With each pulse, the demon shuddered, or flickered, or screamed in agony. Wind and noise began to pick up in the room, tossing loose papers and small objects about, whipping through their hair, pounding in their ears.

"Ut ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos." Sam was yelling the words now, straining to be heard over the din. "Dominicos sanctae ecclesiae! Te rogamus, audi nos. Gloria Patri!"

Michael reared back and gave a single, long, inhuman scream. Black smoke, thick and grainy, poured from his mouth like a chimney. The world shook around them.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. The smoke disappeared into the ceiling, and Michael collapsed to the floor.

Sam was at his side in an instant, checking his vitals. Dean immediately gathered the book and the discarded knife, the two empty flasks, and his and Sam's jackets.

Sam scooped Michael's prone form into his arms and moved out the door.

Dean turned to Sara and Jake.

"Thanks for your help, guys. We'll take it from here."

He tossed the handcuff keys onto the bed and was gone.

* * *

When Sara got into the office the next day, she found a single email waiting for her. 

_Sara,_

_M.B. had a nervous breakdown yesterday, and came to in his psychiatrist's office with very little memory of the past few days. It's entirely possible that he killed his girlfriend while blacked out, but no jury will convict him, because he's already checked himself in to the ward for long-term evaluation._

_Thanks for your help yesterday. I know we didn't give you a lot of choice, but...you could have broken out of those cuffs at any time, couldn't you? _

_G has agreed to share some information about you. Little things, don't worry. I'm just curious. I'm glad to be back in his good graces – his information has saved our asses time and again._

_D and I discussed burning Danny's bones, but in the end we decided he wasn't doing you any harm. I hope we were right. If he ever gets violent, drop us a line – spirits are our specialty._

_If you ever need us at _all_, let G know. He'll find a way to contact us. And either way, I'm sure we'll be around again._

_Thanks for not calling the feds, too._

_Take care of Jake. Having someone you trust at your back is important._

_Later,_

_SW_

* * *

I'm considering writing a companion piece to this, from the Winchesters' point of view. 

Suggestions?


End file.
